


High and Low

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Half-Sibling Incest, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Verbal Humiliation, creepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 09:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10568004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: An heir and a bastard discuss an heir, a bastard, and a hostage.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is complete filth that appeared in my head out of nowhere and I have no excuse for. Sorry. Though in my heart it is dedicated to mah darlin' broi, because of course it is.

“How was Winterfell?”

Domeric shouldn't be surprised to open his door to go to his bed and find Ramsay sitting on it. There is not a maester, septon or god in the Seven Kingdoms who could ever teach Ramsay propriety. _It's not his fault. Bad blood, Father says._

“Fine,” he shrugs as he steps in the door, and then stops, not sure what to do next. Usually he'd strip off and crawl beneath his furs, but he can hardly do that with Ramsay on top of them, wearing no more than a loose nightshirt and breeches. Domeric's uncomfortable. And from the grin that crosses his face, Ramsay knows it. He sighs. “What are you doing here?”

Ramsay pouts. “Can't I say hello to my big brother? They wouldn't let me wait with everyone in the courtyard.” Domeric flinches. Father only took Ramsay beneath their roof reluctantly, and he's still not ready to have him paraded about as his son. He will be one day though. Soon. “I missed you.”

The thing is, Domeric believes him. “Sorry,” he says. “It's just... it's a long journey. I'm tired.”

“Aww, poor thing,” Ramsay cooes. “Well, why don't you sit down and let your baby brother help you relax. I brought ale.”

 _Ale. Of course, ale always makes it easier._ Ramsay grins and shakes the flask at him, and Domeric goes, sitting on the end of the bed with his back to his brother. He's not sure he can bear to look at him right now. A hand and the ale appear in front of him anyway. “Now, you have a drink, settle down... and tell me all about Winterfell.”

Domeric scoffs. “Well, it's a castle several miles from here inhabited by the family Stark since...” Ramsay thumps his back, harder than he probably meant to. “Ow!” says Domeric.

“That's what you get for teasing,” Ramsay whines.

He laughs. “Sorry. Still, if you paid more attention in lessons you'd know–”

“–about the Starks of Winterfell and their bloody castle and how many of their skins we cut off and the Kings of Winter and the King who Sucked Aegon's Cock and blah de blah de blah.” Domeric can't help but smile. No-one can sum up the history of the North quite like Ramsay can. “But c'mon, that's _boring_. I want to know what it was like. Is Ned Stark really seven foot tall with daggers instead of teeth?”

“Gods, no!” Domeric laughs disbelievingly. “Where did you even that idea?”

Ramsay shrugs defensively, winding his arms around his brother's middle, which Domeric opts to ignore. “It's just what I heard.”

He shakes his head. “Lord Eddard Stark is a man, nothing more. Maybe a little stern, but nothing to be scared of.”

“I wasn't _scared_ ,” Ramsay insists. “What about his daughters then?”

“What about them?”

“Either of them look fuckable?”

“Ramsay!” Domeric turns around to face his brother, aghast. Ramsay looks as innocent as he can, which is not very. “First of all, they are girls of thirteen and eleven, respectively, I doubt they've even bled yet–”

“Okay, so does either of them look like they'll grow up to be fuckable?”

“ _Second of all_ , they are highborn maids and the daughters of our liege lord, you ought to speak of them with respect, not like – like–”

“Like what, big brother?” asks Ramsay, mock-innocent look upon his face. Domeric tries to speak, but staring into his brother's wide blue eyes like this, he feels like he can hardly breathe. “Sluts? Whores? ...Wenches?”

Domeric turns back around, flushing, which only deepens when Ramsay starts to graze his fingers across his stomach. _No, no, not now._ Ramsay hooks his chin over Domeric's shoulder, and chuckles against his neck. “You thought about fucking at least one of them. You just can't bring yourself to admit it.”

“I didn't,” Domeric insists.

“Are you sure?” Ramsay asks, mocking. “No need to be ashamed now, I'm sure Father would be most pleased. He'd like you to take one of them, wouldn't he?”

Yes, Domeric's sure Father would. He's never said as much, and Domeric's sure, if he had a daughter, he would not marry her off to the Starks, but marrying one of them off to him is different. If you hold a man's daughter, you hold his heart. Domeric can't remember who told him that. He did try to get to know Sansa Stark a little, in case he might ask for her hand one day, but even then he couldn't bring himself to think about fucking her, not when she was still sweetly singing about Florian and Jonquil to herself. She's just a little girl. They're both just little girls.

“Ramsay...” he mutters as his brother's fingers slip ever lower, “we shouldn't...”

“What about the heir?”

Domeric's head spins. “What about him?”

Ramsay clucks his tongue. “Come on, you must have met him. He's your age, isn't he?”

“A-a little younger.” He can feel Ramsay's fingers start to fidget with his breeches. _About your age,_ he thinks, but he doesn't say it aloud.

“What's he look like?”

“L-like his mother.” Ramsay's struggling with the knot, but Domeric knows it won't keep him long. He's already half-hard. “Like a Tully.”

Ramsay pauses, and Domeric exhales with relief. “Which one are they again?”

He wants to roll his eyes – he knew the Great Houses by the time he was six. Still, he supposes that's hardly Ramsay's fault. “Lords Paramount of the Riverlands. Blue eyes, red hair, high cheekbones.”

“I knew that,” Ramsay insists, and Domeric wants to query that, to fight and to bicker like brothers, except then Ramsay starts plucking at the knot defending his virtue again and the words all fly from him. “A southerner then. Father won't like that.”

No, he didn't. Domeric could see it in his eyes, and he couldn't understand why, since to him Robb Stark seemed like a lovely young man, but still he could tell he was somehow unworthy of his heirdom in Father's eyes, in a way which the current lord was not. He's almost annoyed his bastard brother figured out something he couldn't. “Ramsay...”

“Did you like him?”

“I – I guess?” _Who cares?_ is what he wants to ask. “We didn't really speak much.”

“Oh?” Ramsay says. “You'd think he'd be happy to have a boy about his age to talk to.”

 _I'm not really his age,_ he thinks. “He – he seems to spend most of his time with his bastard brother. And the ironborn lad.”

Ramsay pauses for a moment, considering this. Domeric feels oddly like he's told a secret he didn't even realise he knew. Then, Ramsay yanks at the knot, and his laces fall open.

“Do you reckon he's fucking them?”

“Ramsay!” The bastard's thick hands reach straight down his underclothes, taking a firm hold of his treacherously hard cock, impatient as always, and Domeric gasps as he unwittingly jerks into the motion. He can feel his brother grinding shamelessly against the small of his back. “Wh – of course not–”

“Are you sure?” Ramsay asks as he starts to stroke, slow and yet rough, unsteady, ungentle. Domeric bites back a moan. He wants to slap his brother's hand away, but he just can't get his arms to move. It's always like this. “What, did you watch him day and night, just to make sure he wasn't committing any buggery while you weren't looking?”

“No, but – I mean, there's no reason to think–”

“You said he spent all his time with them,” Ramsay says. “And I know what you got up to with your foster brothers.”

Domeric can't help but whimper. Alright, he and Mychel fooled around a little – but fooling, that's all it was, two boys playing with their bodies together. It ended as soon as Mychel met Mya. It wasn't like–

“My foster brothers,” he points out, breathless. “Not – not–“

“Really?” Ramsay chuckles in his ear as he swipes his thumb over the head of Domeric's cock, and he realises what a stupid argument that is. “Come on, big brother. You forget, I grew up in a mill, talking to different people day after day. We commonfolk, we talk about you lot. And after all the filthy things I've heard you highborns get up to... Nothing would surprise me.”

“Lies,” Domeric gasps as Ramsay tightens his fist and starts to pump him properly. “Born of nothing but envy.” At least, that's what Father always said.

“Hmm. Maybe.” Ramsay pauses to think this over once more – and Domeric whimpers and thrusts into his palm at the loss of stimulation. He can feel Ramsay grinning against his neck. “You want something, Lord Bolton?”

“Ramsay – don't–”

“Stop me then.”

He can't. He never can. That's always how it is: he is the the trueborn, the firstborn, the heir; he has all the power here and yet his bastard little brother can take it all away from him with nothing more than a touch and a smile. The first time, Ramsay came to him in the night pouting like a kicked puppy, saying it was too cold to sleep in his room. He claimed he only wanted an extra blanket, but Domeric wouldn't hear of it; he invited Ramsay to share his bed, share his body heat, like a big brother would. He woke up with Ramsay's hand on his cock. He hadn't understood, he'd thought it must be a dream, but oh, he'd enjoyed it. And as Ramsay grinned as he licked the seed off his fingers, Domeric knew he _knew_ how much he'd enjoyed it.

Ramsay starts to stroke him once more, and Domeric gives him, throwing his head back against his brother's shoulder and moaning. “What do they look like?” Ramsay murmurs. “The bastard and the Ironborn?”

“I–” in truth, it's hard to remember when Ramsay touches him like that. “They were – handsome.”

“Handsome?” Ramsay's hand tightens around his cock until it _hurts_ , and Domeric squeaks with fear. Ramsay is jealous – constantly, terrifyingly jealous – and he needs to remember that.

“N-not as handsome as you, Ram, please–” and like that, Ramsay softens his grip. “But – the bastard, Jon, he was pretty, sullen, he pouted all the time, but he had these lovely black curls – the Ironborn, his hair was straight, but still dark, and he – he smirked all the time, but it was alluring, in a way, like he knew a secret you didn't–”

“Oh, I bet the little Lord Stark enjoys cramming that mouth so full of cock it couldn't stretch to smirk if it wanted to,” Ramsay says, and Domeric can only whine and squirm under his brother's touch. “I bet he likes giving his bastard brother something to pout around too. I bet they both do anything the little lordling asks.” Part of Domeric wants to grab his bastard brother and throw him to the ground and fuck his face until he gags, until he cries, until he's sick, just to put him back in his place – but he knows that's not how this works. _Father was right,_ he thinks, forlorn. _I let him in, and now he's taken me over._

“I bet he loves having his two boywhores at his beck and call, day and night. I bet he loves being able to take it out of one of their arses and stick it right down the other one's throat. I bet he gets them to eat his come out of each others holes or one to eat his arse while the other one sucks his cock or one to suck his balls while he fucks the other one's arse or...” Ramsay trails off, like he's thinking about something, but he doesn't stop; no he only pumps Domeric harder and faster, until he's twisting and writhing in pleasure so fierce he can't bear it, and then his brother speaks: “...Do you think he lets them fuck him too?”

Domeric gasps so loud for a second he thinks he must be coming, but no, he doesn't manage it, he's left in this state of agonised bliss as Ramsay just _keeps talking_ : “I reckon he must, mustn't he? They wouldn't put up with it forever. No-one likes a smug lordling ordering them around all the time.”

He shudders in equal parts pleasure and fear, and Ramsay chuckles against his neck. “Who knows, maybe he likes it,” Ramsay says, and Domeric can feel a finger pulling at the waistband of his breeches. “Maybe he spread his legs once because he realised he was going to lose them if he didn't, but... maybe he realised then how good it felt, being the slut.” A pause. “What do you think, brother? Did he seem like a slutty little lordling to you?”

Domeric groans as Ramsay's finger drifts down to rub at his hole, clenched tight with terror. He's never done anything like that before; not with Mychel, not with anyone, not even with his own fingers, and yet he knows that if Ramsay wants it, he won't stop him. “I – We didn't really–”

“Talk, I know,” Ramsay says. Then he giggles. “Well, fair enough if they boy's mouth was too full of cock to speak to you.” His hand pumps rough and violent as his finger is soft and teasing, and gods, there is a part of Domeric that just wants to beg Ramsay to do his worst, if only to spare him this torment, but he knows he couldn't. “Yeah, I bet he's a filthy fucking whore behind closed doors. I bet he loves being shared between them, having a cock in his mouth and a cock in his arse all at once. I bet he's let them – begged them – to stick both their cocks in one hole at the same time. I bet he's called his bastard brother 'Lord Stark' once or twice, or maybe just 'daddy'. I bet he's let the hostage fuck him with the hilt of the sword Lord Stark might chop his head off with.”

Domeric gasps as he bucks back against his bastard brother, feeling Ramsay hard as a rock against his back. He's seen Ice and knows that the hilt of that would not fit up anyone's arse, but he can hardly bring himself to explain.

“I bet they're not enough for him anymore, so he's fucking his way through the guards and the servants like a total whore. I bet he tried to talk our father into fucking him, and that's why Daddy doesn't like the little heir.”

“Don't – don't mention our father while we're–”

“Why not? Don't you like it?” Domeric can only whimper at that as Ramsay pumps him harder, and gods, all of this is so _wrong_. “See, that's what you highborns are like,” he says. “You have all this power, so you act like you're better than us, and we believe it because we don't really know you, we don't know any better.” Domeric is practically sobbing now, he can feel himself ready to spill. “So you keep yourselves locked away in your castles so we won't find out, because as soon as we get our hands on you? All of that power goes away.” Ramsay grins, in victory. “Because in the end all you are is a dirty little _slut_ –”

Domeric moans and comes, his seed arching in little droplets before it splatters across his furs. Ramsay groans and grunts and digs his nails into his hips hard enough to bruise, bites his neck and Domeric, weak and oversensitive, leans into it. He feels Ramsay rut against him like an animal until he spends with a low moan, making a mess of both their breeches.

After this, the shame comes. That he let Ramsay do it once more. He's never truly agreed to it, he's always just like his brother have his way, and so if worst came to worst and Father found out he could probably claim Ramsay had forced him. _Could I do that though?_ Could he throw his own brother to the wolves just to save his skin, could he pretend like he did not want it, did not enjoy it?

 _It's not his fault. Bad blood, Father always says._ Ramsay is _lonely_ , Domeric knows that, reaching out for connection, for approval, in the only way a bastard knows how. It is Domeric who's taking advantage, using Ramsay's natural perversions to fulfill his sick and twisted and unnatural ones, without ever having to admit to what he wants out loud.

“He's not fucking them,” he finds himself saying once he's gotten his breath back. “He wouldn't. Even if he wanted to. Robb Stark is the perfect heir, his father's very proud of him.”

A pause, and then Ramsay laughs. “See, that's your problem big brother,” he says, and presses a chaste kiss to Domeric's cheek. “You always think everyone is just like you.”


End file.
